A Price above Eagles
by Jantallian
Summary: In 'Double Eagles', Mort is last seen nursing a gunshot wound to the leg in a small hut in the middle of nowhere. An attempt to fill in the missing action and solve some other puzzles in the episode.
1. Chapter 1

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 **A Price above Eagles**

Jantallian

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For Sheriff Mort, who suggested the idea,

and all fans of Stuart Randall

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" _A true friend is like an eagle: you don't find them flying in flocks_." Anon

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 **1**

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 _Of all the danged ridiculous ways to end up, this took the cake!_ Mort Cory shifted cautiously from his position propped against the wall of the hut in which he had been left by his posse and instantly regretted it. Searing pain stabbed up his leg from the gunshot wound and to compound matters his hips and his back were twinging from the angle he was sitting at and he was aching all over from his unaccustomed immobility. At least, he hoped that was why he was aching! The comparison he had just made had not helped either, reminding him as it did that he had nothing to eat but a few measly strips of beef jerky and not much to drink either.

He shook the canteen beside him irritably. It was all very well for Jess Harper to say it would only be for a couple of days at the most. Jess naturally wanted to get on with the pursuit while they still had a chance of succeeding in tracking down the outlaws, but he must have been oblivious to the conditions when he decided Mort would be better off remaining in the dilapidated hut they had come across. Mort couldn't blame him for wanting to pursue the murdering thieves - that was the whole point of what they had set out to do – but on reflection he could think of several better alternatives than just dumping him here to be collected like a piece of luggage. Always supposing the posse did actually return this way. _Really, sometimes Jess's single-minded_ _focus on what he had to do was not a virtue, but a distinct flaw!_

Mort was a reasonable man when he was not suffering from a gunshot wound, a sore back, a numb backside and the uneasy sensation that he was about to be crawled over by hordes of whatever insects happened to inhabit this particular excuse for a shelter. He knew leaving him here had seemed like a good idea at the time. He knew he couldn't ride all the way back to Laramie with Farley to get the doctoring they both needed. He knew it was essential to conceal the gold and give the impression that the three remaining members of the posse were being corrupted by it. He knew Jess had done his best to leave him in the safest conditions he could. He knew Jess cared about him - a wry smile twisted Mort's lips as he remembered Jess tenderly spreading the dusty, moth-ridden blanket over him, as if it would help.

But conditions were still far from ideal!

Thinking about the blanket brought Mort's attention right back to his immediate predicament. _Just let one bug crawl out of that blanket!_ He had a perfectly good blanket in his saddle-roll. Jess must have been out of his mind to forget it when Sam Moore brought the saddle in and Jess set it up as a backrest for Mort. Now it was firmly wedged behind Mort and would require an inadvisable amount to twisting and straining in order to pull it free to use.

Mort didn't curse often. But now he cursed.

The whole enterprise had been bedeviled from the start. It wasn't like him to choose such an ill-assorted posse, with Jess as the only really reliable member of it. He cursed that he had not been able to deputize Slim Sherman as well. With Slim and Jess on your side and in your posse, you could afford to be less picky about the other members of it. He cursed that he had chosen Farley and his foreman. Although both of them were tough men, only one of them was accustomed to taking orders and he had not been long enough in the district for Mort to form an accurate opinion of his reliability. He cursed that he was a sucker for kids who needed a helping hand up the ladder of life. He knew young Sam Moore had to prove himself as a man, but was the best time to do it with a baby about to make its appearance? He cursed that he had been unable to resist the melancholy loyalty in Charlie Frost's face. He bet that was why Jess had ridden in with him to report the murder of Mr Medwick in the first place. Charlie was not strong, but he was, nonetheless, the salt of the earth. Neither Jess nor Mort had ever been able to turn down real honest faithfulness.

When he was done cursing, Mort made an almighty effort to pull himself together. He did not habitually resort to useless regrets nor to blaming others. In a bad situation, he applied his intelligence and experience to improve it. The only problem was that his head was throbbing as well as his leg, making constructive thought increasingly difficult. And there did not immediately seem to be a way he could improve the situation, so he would just have to buckle down and endure it. At least stoical endurance was well within his capabilities. It wasn't the first time he'd been on short rations and in unpleasant conditions.

His mind flicked back briefly to the war. So much of it had involved physical discomfort and deprivation, not to mention mental boredom, disgust and sometimes outright disapproval. The glamour of battles was highly over-rated and the loss of so many lives, young lives all too often, was inestimable. And now it was over, what had it achieved? From all he heard, conditions in the South still left much to be desired and the freedom for which he had fought did not seem to have benefited those bound in the slavery from which the war was intended to release them. The war had cast a shadow over the development of the young men he had led and the reverberations of hostility still continued to disrupt communities and hinder the development of law and order in much of the country. It sometimes seemed a miracle to him that, given their very different backgrounds, Slim and Jess had formed such an unshakable loyalty to each other. He just wished again that Slim …

 **SsSsSsS**

"He did what?" Slim Sherman stared at Daisy Cooper, baffled.

"He rode into town, Slim. With Mr Frost. From Mr Medwick's ranch."

"He did?" Slim's expression hardened into a scowl. "What about the work?" Slim was not thinking very charitably about this, since he had spent the morning rounding up horses, which he disliked and Jess enjoyed immensely. Trust Jess to use some flimsy excuse to slope off into town for a little recreation. Although, on second thoughts, Charlie seemed an unlikely companion, even though he was fond enough of a drink. And on third thoughts, he knew he was being seriously unfair to his partner because Jess would not have left Daisy and Mike to run the relay station unless he had to. "Daisy, what's going on? What's Jess up to this time?"

"Oh, Slim! It's nothing like you think!" Daisy fluttered, perceiving that she had not imparted the news in the clearest manner. "Mr Medwick is dead. Murdered. Mr Frost came for help and of course Jess rode with him to tell the sheriff."

 _Of course!_ Slim knew Jess's capacity for supporting lame dogs was equaled only by his own.

"He did." Slim's scowl was merely a frown. "Well, I'd better get on and catch up with the work. It doesn't take that long to ride into town. I dare say he'll be back around noon."

 **mcmcmcm**

Mort's head jerked up and his eyes opened blearily. Now his neck was stiff from his awkward sleeping position. His whole body still ached. His leg still throbbed. It felt as if someone had put a vice round his head. He was sweating as if he had been lying out in the sun.

Forcing his eyes to stay open, he looked at the window. By the sun it was after noon. He wasn't sure which day. Had he slept through the night or not? His throat felt like a hoof-file had been used on it and the water in the canteen was almost gone.

He closed his eyes again and tried to think. If it was the next day, the remnant of his posse had not returned. That could mean they would be back any moment. Or they might be another twenty four hours. Or more. Could he hold out that long?

Mort forced himself to ignore his physical condition and focus on what he was supposed to be doing. He was guarding the double eagles. They were in his saddlebags. They were safe. At least for the time being. But in his heart, he was much more concerned about the safety of his men.

The death of Ed Casson was a waste, no matter the man had done. There was no need for gratuitous murder under the pretense of serving the posse, whatever the provocation and however the man had succumbed to the lure of gold. If Casson was hoping to keep the fickle favors of Farley's scheming wife, he was under one of the greatest pressures a man could endure. And so was Farley. Mort could understand Farley's feelings about his wife, even though she clearly wasn't worth it. Marriage was sacred and sometimes the joy of sharing it could be all too brief … and grief was a long-lived companion …

As for the other members of his band, he knew Charlie was still drinking. It was not going to help matters if the challenges of the pursuit drove him to the point where he was not capable of doing his duty and became instead a liability to be protected. It was a risk Mort had taken because of Charlie's loyalty and long experience. Now that decision might be putting Sam Moore and Jess in danger. Mort had chosen to allow Sam to risk his own life just at the point when he was about to become the father of new life, of a child who would need his care to thrive and find the resilience to stand up to danger. But there was no guarantee Sam would be any good under fire. Which simply increased the responsibility and the danger for Jess …

 **jhjhjhj**

Jess Harper was worried. He was not a natural worrier, like Slim, but he knew the posse had been fraught with problems right from the start.

Now, although he was applying all his skills and intelligence to the pursuit and ultimate capture of the outlaws, in his heart he was conscious of not having done his best for Mort. The hut was isolated. If anything – God forbid - went wrong with the posse, no-one knew that Mort was there. Mort himself was in no condition to move. They had been able to leave him only very basic supplies.

That meant sooner or later, unless he brought this business to a swift conclusion, Jess was going to have to decide between the pursuit and going back to rescue Mort. And if he gave up the pursuit, he would be letting Mort down and wasting all the painful progress they had made.

At this point, Jess gave himself a firm mental shaking, echoing the kind of physical reprimand which Slim would have given him for failing to use his common sense. It was, however, not a matter of common sense – Jess rarely acted from any such motivation. But he did act from his heart. And there was no doubt whatsoever of the place Mort Cory had in Jess's heart. Somewhere between an experienced much older brother, a beloved and trusted uncle and a father who wouldn't always beat him for his often arrogant recklessness – that was how Jess felt about Mort. More than this, even: Mort was Slim's friend, his ex-commander, his mentor and his life-long supporter. He had been a friend of Slim's parents, often acting as a surrogate father, and in many ways, the love between them was stronger for the tragedies they had both suffered.

No way was Jess going to let anything happen to Mort …

 **mcmcmcm**

 _If anything happened to the remnant of the posse, if – God forbid – the outlaws got the better of them …_ Mort pulled himself up abruptly from this train of thought. There was no point in speculating about what might or might not happen. The trick with a posse was to out-think the ones you were chasing. In this case, Mort had considerable misgivings about doing so.

Right from the start, whoever was leading the robbers had shown a good grasp of the way men's minds work and a willingness to make temporary sacrifices in order to achieve long-term gain. Mort was certain all along they had been baited with the prospect of gold. He was pretty sure they were being observed a lot of the time too. Certainly the decision to 'abandon' the bulk of the double eagles would not have been an easy one and there was no way those who had gone to such lengths to obtain possession of them would then simply give them up so easily. No, someone was going to be watching every moment while those bags were in the hands of the posse.

That was, of course, the whole point of Jess and the other two continuing to ride in pursuit. They would try to lure the outlaws into making an attack which would actually give the posse the advantage – if Jess was able to maneuver them all to the place he intended … if they had planned it right … if everyone played their part … if no-one lost their head … if the gang were fooled …

There were too many 'ifs' for Mort's liking, especially given a really intelligent leader of the opposition! But, all the same, he was pinning his faith on Jess – on his tenacity, his experience, his quick-thinking, his sense of justice and his sheer lack of acquaintance with the word 'defeat'! There had not been a lot of time to plan, but that was probably as well. Too rigid a plan would prevent the posse improvising as circumstances demanded.

At least the gold was not with them. Mort patted the saddlebags, hidden under the verminous blanket. They were safe, but they did not make the most comfortable of mattresses. And although the gold was safe, no-one but Jess and Mort knew it.

 _The posse could be injured or killed for nothing more than a couple of sacks of stones!_ The waste this would entail hit Mort as hard as any stone. He felt as if his stomach had turned to lead and his head to a scalding cauldron! And the waste only reminded him of Ed Casson, now resting quietly in the grave Mort had insisted they dig for him, freed both from the lure of gold and the snares of women. That grave might have seemed like a waste of time to some, but Mort was not prepared to leave a man to the coyotes and the crows without good reason. And good reason was generally a hail of lead!

As it was, the only lead had been from their own side. From Farley's jealous, angry gun. There was reason enough to excuse his emotions but not his actions. Mort was rightly angry that Farley had pretended to be saving him as an excuse to gun down Casson. And more than this, the man was a bully, picking quarrels with everyone and sneering at their fallibility, as if he had none of his own. _Well, those letters to Ed from Millie put paid to his tough pose and were in a fair way to making him look a fool too_. Farley needed to take a closer look at the way Jess had dealt with the situation, if he wanted to know what real toughness showed like. Jess could have killed him, but he didn't. Mort had known right from the first shoot-out he'd seen Jess in that, fast gun though he was, he never killed gratuitously.

Mort just hoped Jess's speed was going to be enough now against three men, with only the somewhat dubious help of an inexperienced farmer and a rather shaky senior cowhand.

 **SsSsSsS**

The noon-day stage from Laramie pulled out of the Sherman Relay Station in a cloud of dust. Mose was in a hurry, having been delayed getting away from town by, as he put it, 'female goings-on'. He did not specify and Slim was too preoccupied to ask. No team changes were necessary and the whole transaction took less than five minutes.

Slim stood in the middle of the yard, gazing down the road. He was not looking after the stage. His frowning gaze was fixed in the direction of Laramie itself. It was several long minutes before he gave a slight shrug and turned back towards the barn and the horse he had been shoeing.

Daisy stood on the porch, absently twisting her apron in her hands. She too was frowning. She watched as Slim finished off the rasping and let the horse put its hoof down again. He handed the halter to Mike, who led it off to the paddock.

Slim remained where he was, still staring towards Laramie. He was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice Daisy walking over to him and came back to earth with a jolt as she addressed him.

"Slim, whatever is the matter with you?"

Slim attempted to give her a reassuring smile but Daisy was not fooled. "It's Jess, isn't it? You're worried about him." Such introspection was surprising in view of the unique bond between the two of them: neither of them fussed over routine hazards of daily life, although both were utterly supportive of each other where real danger was concerned. "Why? What's bothering you so much?"

"If Mort is investigating Mr Medwick's death, Daisy, they ought to have passed us long ago on their way to his ranch. And Jess would bring Charlie home, anyway. You know how he is with underdogs and Charlie sure needs all the support he can get."

Daisy nodded, understanding, and told him briskly: "Get along then! You aren't going to find out what's happened by standing here staring at the road."

"There's no stage due till early evening," Slim admitted. "You and Mike will be all right?"

"You know we will. We'll just get on with preparing an extra large supper. You're going to bring Mort and Charlie back – that's an order! - and I know Jess will be starving whatever's happened."

Slim grinned and gave her a quick hug. In less than no time he had saddled Alamo and the road to town echoed to the beat of galloping hooves.


	2. Chapter 2

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 **2**

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 **mcmcmcm**

Someone was beating something. An insistent drumming, a persistent hammering, which would not let him rest. Mort's head tossed from side to side as he tried to rid himself of the pounding in his brain, but that only made it worse. His eyes remained tight shut, but his hand scrabbled around and eventually located the canteen. When he lifted it to his lips, only a little trickle of water remained, scarcely sufficient to make any impact on his dry throat and the throbbing of his hot head.

Mort forced his eyes open. The light in the hut hardly seemed to have changed. So either it was the same afternoon or he had slept through another whole night and it was the next day. Still the posse had not returned. Whichever day it was, Mort's position was rapidly becoming untenable. He could not stay here much longer.

It was at this point that he saw the first of the lice crawling out from the thick weave of the tattered blanket.

 _That did it! No way was he going to stay here and be eaten alive!_

Mort flung off the blanket, tossing it as far away as he could. Now he definitely had to get to better shelter. And he had to find water – soon! But first, he had to get to his feet.

As luck would have it, his injured leg was on the same side as the bench he needed to use to push himself upright. There was no way he could simply roll over onto his knees and use it to lean on. After a few minutes thought, Mort tossed his rifle over to the doorway: it would not serve as a lever to get him up, but he must take it with him. After this, he began to inch his way laboriously across the hut, still in sitting position. It didn't do his backside much of a favor, but at least he was getting nearer to being upright.

The thought of being on his feet and able to hobble as far as his horse was encouraging. What was not encouraging was that his saddle was on the floor where he had been propped up. If he was to have any chance of staying on his horse, he needed that saddle. But he was quite incapable of picking it up and carrying it outside to wherever his horse was grazing. After considerable more thought, he edged back again, unwound the rope from his saddle horn and tied one end of it securely to the saddle itself and fastened on the two saddlebags which had been left with him. After a few experimental tugs, he reckoned he could drag the saddle and its attachments outside after him. It wouldn't do it much good, but fortunately the floor of the hut and the earth outside were flat and dusty, with few rocks or roots for it to snag on. He just hoped the saddle-bags would stand up to such treatment.

 _Now to get to his feet!_ Mort positioned himself with his back against the bench just inside the door and used his elbows and then his hands to lever himself slowly and painfully on to it. Despite his slow and careful efforts, he wrenched his injured leg and had to hang on grimly for several minutes before he could sit up and take stock of his progress.

The next thing was to get out of the door. Before he made any move, he tightened the rough bandages which were all Jess has been able to fix round his leg. They were matted with dried blood, which was meant the wound had stopped bleeding. How long that would last was anyone's guess and Mort was not, by nature, a guesser. He preferred to think things through and act from reason rather than gut-instinct. So he tightened the bandages against the damage which movement would undoubtedly do to the clotting. What he needed now was a crutch. His rifle would do at a pinch, but the pinch of the wound was so severe that something much more substantial would be a blessing. Mort applied his mind to the hut and its surroundings. He was pretty sure there were loose planks resting against the outside. One of those might help, if he could just get that far.

The next few minutes were a nightmare. For a start, he could not put any weight on the injured leg and was forced to proceed by hopping on his good leg. Apart from the fact that this made him feel both vulnerable and stupid, it was a very slow method of progress and put enormous strain on his good leg. Then, for every few feet he gained, he had laboriously to drag his saddle and the heavy bags after him, keeping it sufficiently close so that he could manage to pry it loose, should it snag on anything. He got as far as the door, a matter of some three or four feet, and leaned thankfully against the jamb, taking his weight off his good leg a little and wondering if he had the balance to bend and pick up his rifle.

This huge effort had not done his head or his throat any good. His head throbbed unmercifully and every breath he drew only rasped more painfully into his lungs than the last. It was monumentally frustrating and a lesser man than Mort Corey would just have slumped back into the corner and died.

 **jhjhjhj**

Jess was frustrated too. Naturally a man of action first and idleness a long way a second, he found it hard to call off the pursuit while there was still daylight left. Charlie and Sam had looked at him askance too, but made no protest. When Jess was in charge, he _was_ in charge and, while he was respectful of the observations and experience of other members of the posse, ultimately decisions rested with him. The decision to stop early and pitch camp while they could still be observed doing so was a strategic one. Jess knew what he planned and was willing to sacrifice keeping close to the outlaws if it meant them falling into his trap. Besides, he knew full well that they would not let the gold out of their sight. _Too bad they were looking in the wrong place!_

The gold was safe enough, provided all attention was focused on the diminished posse. But under his cool and single-minded appearance, Jess was deeply uneasy. Again he wished he had been able to make better provision for Mort. Again he cursed the cunning of the outlaws who, with a bit of help from the members of it, had successfully reduced their posse to an old man and an inexperienced boy. He wished he had ridden Traveller over that first gold coin so it was ground into the turf where less sharp eyes than Jess's would not spot it. As it was, Charlie had called their attention to it, when Jess had been hoping it would go unnoticed and so avoid tempting the other men. But it had been a vain hope; the ones they were pursuing were prepared to bait them with the gold they had killed for. Mort had been ready to let each of them be tempted, but Jess was less sure of the resolve of the others. Now they were truly to be tested.

But he trusted Charlie. He might not be so young, but he had a wealth of experience, twenty years of it, and he knew that a good posse had to act like one man. Well, now it was down to the three of them to act like one – nothing less would work. Whether Sam would be up to the test was another matter. Jess was not given to praying over-much; he figured God had given him the skills and the experience to get on and sort things out for himself most of the time. But, right now, more than the arrest and the recovery of the double eagles hung on the success of their plan. Mort's health and safe return to Laramie were in their hands too and no amount of gold could pay the price of that. He put up a silent, heart-felt prayer.

 **mcmcmcm**

Mort himself might have been tempted to give quite a lot of gold for some assistance in his self-appointed task. Since, however, he had no intention of handing over any of the stolen gold except to the appropriate authorities, he was prepared to rely on good will for assistance, should anyone actually appear on the scene. The likelihood of this, he knew, was remote. The only people anywhere nearby were Duval and his daughter, who would be highly unlikely to be following in the wake of the posse.

This brought Mort to the realization that he had not given thought to planning what he would do if he did manage to mount his horse. In reality he did not have any option. Duval's cabin was the only inhabited place for miles around. He would have to trust that the volatile Frenchman would not just put another bullet in him. Remembering how certain members of his ill-assorted posse had been pleased to trash the house in their search for the gold, Mort was not sanguine. And he himself had stopped Duval beating his daughter for giving away their duplicity - a denial of the man's right to treat her as he saw fit. That probably wasn't going to do him any favors either, except possibly with the girl. _Which way would her inclinations take her?_ He recalled how Jess had manhandled her in from the barn. Not too roughly, but certainly not applying the charm of which he was perfectly capable. Mort sighed. _Why couldn't you rely on young men to know when soothing the savage female was in their interests – or at any rate, in Mort's!_

Be that as it may, he still had to get to his horse. He pulled the saddle through the doorway, before finding a suitable plank to give him a little more support. With his rifle in his other hand, it was marginally better than just hopping, but not much. Now he had to hope Jess had not tethered his horse, but hobbled it instead.

He rounded the corner of the hut painfully and very slowly. He stopped to haul the saddle and the attendant bags after him. Raguel's bridle was hanging from a hook under the eaves. _Good. Jess had obviously hobbled him rather than tying him up._ Mort peered blearily against the strong afternoon sun. He could just see the bay, a little further up the hill under the trees. There was no way Mort was going to get up there, but if he could get Raguel to come to him, there were boxes here he could use to mount. Though not trained to as many commands as Jess's Traveller, Raguel knew his master well and they had been together a long time. Usually he would come to call. _Please God let this be one of the times!_

Mort rested again until the pounding in his head and his leg eased a little and he felt able to move once more. He had no idea how much time had passed, but the sun seemed to be declining and the shadows were getting longer. It was not the best time to seek out help, but he had no option. Or rather, he had the lack of water and the company of the lice as the only alternative to his course of action.

When he felt his head was steadier, he stood up again, supporting himself with plank and rifle, and hopped to the back of the hut.

"Rags! Come up, Rags!" He hardly ever called his horse by his full name and never if there was anyone else to hear. People often asked why such a smart mount had the name of a scruffy one, but Mort had never revealed to anyone that the animal was actually named Raguel after the Archangel of Justice. It was his own private symbol of his intention to pursue justice and equality for all.

The horse raised his head now. Mort called again, the encouraging tone he used when he was going to feed Raguel or give him some other treat. After a few minutes looking over at Mort, the horse began to move, slowly, calmly, taking small steps because of the hobble. He came pace by pace down the slope and halted placidly in front of Mort, uttering a soft wicker as he did so.

"Good boy! Well done, Rags!" Mort pulled the soft ears which were pricked towards the sound of his voice. He wished he had some kind of reward, but if they ever got home, Raguel was going to get all the carrots and apples he could stuff into him. _Actually, probably not_. Mort had more sense than to overfeed his horse anything for any reason, however good. _Maybe an apple and a couple of carrots?_

"Stand, Raguel!" He rarely used the full name aloud, but his horse recognized the seriousness of his tone when he did.

Mort reached down the bridle and slipped it on, fumbling a little with the buckles as he was trying at the same time to balance on one leg. At least he could lean against a good solid horse for support now. Even this action cost him more than he had expected and he was forced to rest yet again.

Presently he was able to reach down and, with a mighty effort, managed to haul up his saddle and heave it on to the patiently waiting Raguel, saddle-bags and all. The weight was almost more than he could manage, but he was driven by a desperate adrenaline-rush. He jammed his rifle into the saddle holster too. He was conscious that he was being rougher and clumsier than usual, but his body was fast refusing to co-operate at all and he hoped fervently his horse would continue to put up with him. But at last all was ready and he unhobbled Raguel with difficulty. Now all he had to do was to mount up.

Mort's first attempt made him realize that getting into the saddle was going to put severe stress on his injured leg and riding would only make it worse. He'd joked to Jess – and it seemed years ago – that he wouldn't win any prizes for riding. Now he understood that he was likely to set the wound bleeding to a dangerous extent. After some gloomy and rather confused consideration of this problem, he drew his knife and cut laborious strips from his blanket. These he used to pad the wound over the bandages, securing them with some of his rope. It wasn't brilliant, but it would protect his leg somewhat.

Then he mounted up. _No prizes!_ he thought wryly as he settled into the saddle and felt for the first time what it was going to be like to ride. But he had to go. His throat was so parched he could hardly breath and his body had begun to shake and shiver, despite the heat of the sun on his skin.

 _Where should he go?_ He could retrace the known route which they had followed here, going back up the pass and along the shoulder of the mountain. Or he could cut across country, the way the outlaws had probably come, and hope to find the river, which he knew would lead him close to Duval's cabin. If the remnant of the posse succeeded in their task, Jess would hardly lead them back on the false trail, even if they came this way at all.

Mort shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts but everything seemed to be foggier by the minute. If he rode downhill he could not go far wrong and Raguel must need water, so he would guide them to the river. _He hoped!_ Mort set his face firmly to the downward slopes of the mountain and strove to keep his mind on his destination. There was not much of the afternoon left and he had far to go.

 **SsSsSsS**

Slim had made excellent time into Laramie, for it was not far on a good horse and he arrived with most of the afternoon to spare. Or so he thought. But not for long. He had barely hitched Alamo outside the Sheriff's Office when circumstances at once began to divert him from his desired course of action. Or to put it more bluntly, people began to get in his way.

There was no-one in the Office. This was odd, because Mort usually left someone to mind the shop. Slim looked up and down the street and spotted Toby Miller, who often deputized and had, he recalled, just been over to Casper to escort a prisoner. He appeared to be entangled, as Mose put it, in 'female goings-on'. Slim had no wish to get embroiled in what was obviously an embarrassing situation, but he was not going to wait a moment longer to find out what had happened to Jess. He strode down the street towards the saloon.

That was a mistake.

"Why, Mr. Shlerman!" The woman's voice was slurred and she had obviously been drinking hard. She wrenched her arm out of Toby's grip and reeled across to Slim, flinging herself at him in such an uncontrolled manner that he was forced to embrace her to keep her upright.

That was a mistake.

He should have let her collapse into the dirt of the road, where she richly deserved to be. But Slim was a gentleman and did not drop ladies in the dust, however much he might want to.

"Mrs. Farley."

"Millie, darling – 's Millie!" She had her arm round his neck now and the taint of alcohol wafted unappealingly into his nostrils. "Joe's gonna way onna posse. Took m'darlin' Ed with 'im!

"Mrs. Farley!"

Slim's warning protest was lost on her. Instead he got: "I'm all lonely atta ranch. Y' gonna come back with me!"

That was her mistake.

Slim recoiled in horror, grabbing her wrist and breaking her grip on him with a kind of savage courtesy. He pushed her in Toby's direction. "Stop that!" he ordered bluntly. "Go to the hotel and sleep off whatever you've been drinking! Toby, see she gets a room, will you?"

His outright rejection seemed to sober Millie up somewhat and her face began to crumple with incipient tears. The two men exchanged harassed glances.

"Been tryin' to do just that, Slim"

"She'll go now she's seen sense," Slim asserted firmly, "then maybe someone will tell me what's going on with this posse?"

"Search me, Slim." Toby seized Millie's elbow in an unbreakable grip and steered her away in the direction of the hotel. "When I got here, they'd already ridden out."

Slim was filled with misgiving. A posse containing Joe Farley, a bully if ever he'd met one, and Ed Casson, who was a completely unknown quantity, did not argue a successful one. It was unlike Mort to assemble a motley crew, but Slim was glad he'd had the sense to take Jess. And he prayed both his friends were as safe as anyone could be on whatever mission had caused them to ride out.

He was still no nearer knowing what this was. As he was standing deep in thought outside the saloon doors, Freddie came out, wiping his hands on his apron. A thankful grin was on his face. "Thanks, Slim. Thought we'd never get rid of her!"

"What's happened, Freddie?"

Freddie naturally knew every single thing which happened in Laramie and it did not take him long to unfold the sorry tale of Mr. Medwick's murder and the cunning theft of the gold eagles. He was voluble on the make-up of the posse, adding to Slim's fears by telling him about the inclusion of a young farmer and an old cowhand with a drink problem. "Glad Jess rode with'm, Slim. Good thing Mort's got him along, 'cos I don't fancy the others much for bein' any help in a tight place."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Which way did they ride?"

"Outta by the main road, your direction, but I guess they'll have branched off into the mountains soon enough."

"Baxter's Ridge again?" Slim sighed. _Really, outlaws all had the same idea!_

Freddie shrugged. Outside of the main street of Laramie did not interest him. He patted Slim encouragingly on the shoulder and said: "Jess can look after himself a helluva lot better'n most."

"Yeah." As if Slim didn't know that. _So why was he acting like a mother bear missing her only cub?_ It was ridiculous. Jess had been in more than one posse. He would not thank Slim for fussing over him. More likely he'd tell him to ' _quit worryin' before y' wear them lines in y' forehead for good!_ '. And this kind of groundless worry was totally uncharacteristic of Slim. He acted predominantly from reason and common sense and left all the gut instinct to Jess. But now he couldn't shake off the foreboding which had settled in his heart and mind as soon as Daisy had told him about the murder of Mr. Medway.

Thoughts of Daisy brought him back to reality. He had a relay station to run and he was short-handed to the tune of one errant gunslinger. Slim came to a decision and strode briskly down the street, before remembering that Daisy had said something about needing more flour while he was in town. He heaved another sigh and turned into the General Stores.

That was a mistake.

"Hey, Slim!" Frank Kramer, the proprietor, sounded delighted and relieved to see him. And it couldn't just be the prospect of a sale, good customer though Slim was. "Just the man we need!"

 _Oh no! And what was this about 'we'?_ As far as Slim knew, Frank was a confirmed bachelor.

"Daisy needs a sack of flour, Frank."

"Sure, Slim. Got some of the fine-ground the lady likes. But I've got a lady in need of some assistance too."

 _Oh no!_ Slim prayed fervently that this one was not drunk too. But he let himself be firmly guided into the little office at the back of the shop. Alma Moore was sitting in a rather dilapidated armchair. She had obviously been given some refreshment, though it remained untouched. She was pale and her eyes were wide and unfocused. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her pale skin. An occasional tremor ran through her body.

"Mrs Moore was waiting for the man her husband got to drive her back to the farm, but he never showed. She felt faint and I made her come in here."

 _She was more than faint_! If Slim was not very much mistaken, the baby was not far away from making its entry into the world. He might not know very much about childbirth, but he had delivered enough baby animals to recognise the signs in a human.

"Where's the doc?" he demanded of Frank.

"Out of town, Slim. Rode out to see to Medwick and help bring the body back as evidence for Mort when he catches those murdering thieves."

"Sam!" Alma gave a choked sob of fear at the danger her husband was riding into.

"It's all right, Mrs. Moore, don't you worry. Slim'll think of a solution." Frank's faith was touching.

No doctor and no place a woman could give birth in either, unless someone invited her in to their house. But most of the houses in Laramie scarcely had room for their occupants, let alone a guest requiring space and quiet and privacy. And no woman should be expected to give birth in a public hotel.

Slim came to a swift and compassionate decision. The young woman could not stay here nor would a trip in the rickety wagon the couple owned do her any good in her present state. Slim went down to the Livery, hired a buggy and tied Alamo to the back. Then he arranged for Frank's young assistant to drive the Moore's wagon to the relay station after him.

Resigning himself to the fact that he would not find out the fate of the posse today, Slim helped Alma into the buggy and set off, driving with the uttermost care, to deliver her and the immanent baby into Daisy's care.

By the time they reached home, the shadows were long and the tips of the western mountains touched with gold of a pure and ethereal kind.

 **mcmcmcm**

The long shadows of the mountains combined with the dark trunks of the trees to form an apparently impenetrable barrier. Mort squinted through the last rays of sunlight, which seemed to be forming a golden haze over everything, and wished he had decided to move earlier in the day. The way ahead looked impossible, but Raguel kept up a steady pace, moving ever downward.

Mort gave up trying to see his path and committed his entire trust to his horse. His vision was definitely blurring now and spots seemed to swim before his eyes. Then he realised that there really were spots – the drifting flight of evening moths in the still warm air under the trees. This should have been comforting, but somehow the delicate creatures with their seemingly aimless flight reminded him of how vulnerable he was and how unsure of where he was going.

Despite the silence all around him, Mort felt as if he was being accompanied by someone enthusiastically beating a drum. But the beating was inside his head. And there were spots in front of his eyes as well as the moths. His skin felt as if it was burning up and there was nothing he could do about it. The precious drops of water remaining in his canteen could not be used to bath his forehead. They were all he had left to drink.

Being in the saddle was shaking every bone he had. And he was beginning to shake with the effort of riding and with the increasing fever which seemed to be firing his body. The throbbing in his head was equaled by the throbbing of his wounded leg. He slumped forward, banging his chest sharply against the saddle horn, but he hardly noticed.

The reins fell slack. Raguel slowed for a moment, his rider lying almost comatose against his neck. This was unusual, but Raguel was a sensible horse. He needed a drink. His rider probably needed a drink. The water was below. He continued to walk steadily downhill, regardless of any direction from his passenger.

It was full dark when the sound of splashing water finally roused Mort from his pain-ridden stupor. He was lucky not to have pitched right into it, because Raguel stooped his head just as Mort pulled himself upright again.

They were on the edge of the river. Not only on the edge, but close to the big oak tree by which they had originally been misdirected. The sound and scent of the water were driving Mort mad, but he let his horse have his fill first. If a man neglected the needs of his mount, he would not last long in the wilderness of Wyoming or anywhere else for that matter. Besides, Mort was deeply thankful to the faithful friend who had carried him so carefully and successfully to where they both needed to be.

It was only a short distance to Duval's cabin now, but Mort could not go a foot further without a drink. When Raguel had finished, he steered him back out of the river and under the tree. He slid awkwardly from the saddle, cursing the renewed agony it cost him and uneasily aware that the thick blanket binding his leg was beginning to get damp with blood. He unhitched his canteen and swallowed the last few drops, intending to refill it.

This time he had only his rifle to support him. Hopping was impossible. He shuffled towards the lip of the bank and stumbled, falling outstretched but short of the water. So he had to drag himself hand over painful hand until he was able to reach down. He splashed the blessed cool water over his inflamed face and throbbing head. Then he drank deeply and refilled his canteen.

The effort exhausted him and he knew he could go no further that night. Somehow he managed to get back to Raguel and unhitch what was left of his blanket. Wrapping it clumsily around him, Mort rolled onto his good side and instantly fell into a needful but much disturbed sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

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 **3**

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 **jhjhjhj**

Jess tucked himself into the corner of a couple of rocks so that his back was supported and even if he dozed a bit, he would not fall asleep and pitch down the little cliff-face above the camp they'd made late in the afternoon while there was still plenty of light for it to be seen by. Now the day was spent. It was going to be a long night, although nothing should happen before dawn, if his calculations were right. He was certain they were being watched. He too would not really sleep. The whole success of their pursuit lay in a balance as precarious as the crevasse he had elected to spend the night in.

The stones were cold and unyielding against his back, but he didn't really take much notice of this. It served to keep him awake and that was good. He hoped Mort was even slightly more comfortable and able to sleep, although he knew that remaining immobile in one position for so long was going to cause serious cramp in the muscles, in addition to the pain of the leg wound. Thinking about Mort helped Jess remain alert in the long hours of darkness and it made him grin to think how it would amuse his friend to be so useful, even when a bullet had rendered him incapable of giving physical assistance.

It was not until the first cold light of dawn began to creep over the eastern slopes and up to the camp that Jess cautiously flexed his own stiff limbs. He dared not stand and have the really good stretch he needed. Instead he readied himself for action as best he could. If his calculations were right, things were about to start happening.

Sure enough, Sam was beginning to look edgy as he stood guard. His attention was on the camp and the two mounds of bedrolls, rather than the surroundings. Presently he ceased to be on look-out at all, but gradually approached the two heavy bags lying close to Jess's blankets. His movements were furtive as he picked up the two sacks and his saddle. Then near disaster. Jess almost exploded with apprehension as the young man dragged the saddle over to his horse, his stirrups trailing across the ground. Not only was it very bad for the equipment, but the noise would certainly have roused Jess himself, had he actually been in his bedroll below. He held his breath, praying that the observers would not make any such connection. After all, they didn't know him and they would assume that Charlie, being older, would need his sleep after the arduous pursuit.

Thankfully he watched as Sam made his 'getaway' without causing any response from the watchers. Jess turned to the rocky mountainside behind him and forced his stiff body to begin to climb.

 **mcmcmcm**

Dawn took longer to reach the river valley and penetrate the deep shade of the oak tree.

Raguel was still standing patiently, saddled and ground-haltered by the dropped reins. He had not moved a step to graze or drink again. It was as if he stood guard over his fallen master.

His master did not move as the light finally touched his face. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Occasionally one hand twitched as if he was reaching for his fallen rifle in his dreams. His dreams were uneasy, filled with faceless phantoms from whose spectral hands gold coins dropped with the cold hiss of falling sleet. But there was no sleet in his dreams, no cool of any kind. He was burning up in a furnace from which he could not escape and on the edge of it he saw the shadowy figures of his friends – friends helpless to reach and rescue him, because they did not know where he was.

It was this thought which dragged Mort back to consciousness. _Why had he left the hut? What in hell was he doing, leaving the only place Jess knew where to find him?_

He lay helpless, trying to piece together the memory of his actions the previous day. Finally his eyes focused on a round leather shape next to his head. It took a while to recognize that it was the canteen. _Water! He had needed water!_

Mort reached out and tried to grasp the canteen. He succeeded in dragging it closer, but when he tried to sit up his body simply refused to move. _OK then. He'd go on lying down. He'd get the stopper out somehow and take very careful sips so as not to spill any._

Easier said than done. He was lying on his left arm and the pain in his right leg was such that he could not force himself to roll over and free it. One handed, he wrestled with the canteen, thanking God that his right hand was free and cursing himself for his weakness and clumsiness. Eventually a little water did trickle between his lips but more got on his shirt and down his neck. It cooled him a fraction, but did not ease the fever enough to let him move any more than before. It was all he could do to get the stopper back into the canteen.

 _Raguel! His faithful horse needed water too._ Mort gave himself another cursing for not teaching his horse more commands. When he got back to Laramie – he refused to say 'if' – he was going to take some tips from Jess, if he and the horse were not too old to learn new tricks.

He could do nothing. Soon he could not hold up his head any longer. The light increased and the heat grew, even under the tree. Mort wanted to shrug off the blanket tangled about him, but could not summon the strength. He slumped face down as his body rolled over before he could stop it. Blinding pain surged through him and plunged him once more into the dreams from which dawn had brought a little respite.

 **SsSsSsS**

Slim left the relay station at dawn.

The previous day they had way-laid the doctor on his return from Medway's place and he had promised to come back if need be, although muttering as aside: "Women have been giving birth on their own since the ark sailed!" In any case, he trusted Daisy who, as he pointed out with a smile, had more personal experience of this particular medical event than he did. Slim was confident that Alma was in good hands and touched by the young woman's gratitude for what he thought of only as the right way to treat your neighbors. Slim had also ridden over to ask Ben Jenkins, who occasionally worked for him, to help Daisy and Mike, since he had no idea how long it would take him to catch up with the posse. They already had almost a day's start on him.

Alma's need of her husband at this time was another incentive to find them, even if he had not been seriously perturbed by his unusual premonitions of disaster. As he saddled up his chestnut, he was thankful and somewhat encouraged by the fact that, even if he should lose the trail, Alamo would find Traveller if his stablemate was anywhere in the vicinity. He just hoped he was as good at finding his missing friend as the horses were.

The way was easy to follow. Nine sets of hooves made a considerable trail and it did not need Jess's skill to pick it out. Slim was able to ride much faster than the posse because he did not have to stop to work out which way the leading three horses had gone. He simply urged Alamo on at a steady trot. No sense in thrashing at an all-out gallop which would only exhaust his mount and might result in him missing any deviation from the main track. The strength of any horse needed to be husbanded even when you were not chasing or being chased and he wondered how long the outlaws would be able to keep theirs forging ahead, given the heavy burden of double eagles which they were carrying. Pursuers and pursued would necessarily be travelling slower than Slim. Nevertheless, he did not catch up with them and was forced at last to camp for the night, lest he lose the trail in the dark.

Another dawn saw him already in the saddle and on the trail again. It was not long before he reached the river where the outlaws had disguised which way they had gone. The way the posse had taken was, however, still clear and Slim rode on until he came up to Duval's cabin. This he approached with caution, having seen the irritable Frenchman in action when Mort arrested him. He might not be drunk at this time of the day, but he was likely to have resented the visit the posse had probably made. Slim halted a little way off and thought carefully before making his approach.

Marie Duval was up to her arms in soapy water, making the most of a fine day to get the washing done and drying before the weather turned again. Like all wilderness women, she was alert to her surroundings at all times and her sharp ears heard the approach of a lone horseman long before he came into sight. One rider might or might not be trouble. She rather hoped it might be Al Denning, for his visit had been … interesting … but all too brief. If it was him, however, it would bode no good because he had made it clear that he had no reason to return and if he did, something drastic would have gone wrong with his plans. Perhaps, though, it was the dark young man who had manhandled her out of the barn. He thought she was a wild-cat, but her struggle against him had been more in fun than in terror and had distinct possibilities she would like to explore.

All these thoughts were running through her head while her feet ran in to warn her father. Consequently, when Slim rode up to the cabin, he found Duval smoking quietly on the porch and his daughter industriously scrubbing shirts, a picture of innocent domesticity. Slim was not surprised to spot Duval's rifle, partially concealed by the porch upright but close to his hand if need be. That was to be expected. They lived an isolated life and visitors would always be suspect until they had been proven harmless.

"You have business with Duval?" The Frenchman rose to his feet, his rifle instantly in his hand.

Slim raised both of his to show that he was unarmed. "I'm Slim Sherman. I run the relay station on the road to Cheyenne. Could you spare my horse some water? I could use a coffee too."

Duval gave him a long appraisal. Then he gestured brusquely to his daughter and she scurried inside. "Water trough's over there, Mr. Sherman."

Slim dismounted cautiously and slowly, not wanting to give any warning signs to Duval's alert hostility.

"You are a long way from the road – no? – Mr. Sherman?" Duval stood square behind him, blocking any attempt at entry into his cabin. "You have a reason, maybe? Perhaps one not to Duval's advantage."

"I'm hot and tired and I've ridden a long way since dawn. No time for breakfast, either," Slim told him perfectly truthfully.

The girl was hovering on the porch, her eyes wide with interest. She called: "Time we had coffee, Papa. Bring Mr. Sherman inside."

Duval's eyes gleamed with recognition of his daughter's intentions, but he stepped back with a flourishing gesture to allow Slim to precede him into the cabin. Inside there seemed to be a shortage of crockery, but fortunately Slim made no reference to this. It was bad enough working out whether Duval had talked with the posse or not, and if so, what his reaction had been. It was not long before he found out the answer to both questions.

On hearing that Slim was trying to catch up with them, Duval leapt to his feet with a roar of rage. "Hah! You are another of these arrogant scum! You eat my bread, you drink my wine, then you abuse Duval and ravish his daughter and wreck his cabin!"

Slim's eyes widened at this diatribe. He didn't think the posse had had the time, much less the inclination to do any such thing – not with Mort Cory leading them. _Could something have happened to Mort?_ His heart contracted. _But then Jess would be in charge and Jess wouldn't …?_

"Papa!" the girl admonished. "You are crazy. So they break a few dishes. But the rest –" She gave Slim a dazzling smile. "I am untouched."

Slim rather doubted this. The invitation to 'remedy' her condition was all too clear. It seemed to be his fate to get entangled with females in whom he had not the slightest interest. All the same, he had to capitalize on this unexpected support.

"I'm just trying to catch them up," he explained, "because of the young one, Sam Moore. His wife's having her first baby and it's due anytime now. She's at my place and we're looking after her, but Sam won't know where to find her. I need to catch him up and get him back there in time to see his child born."

It was the right line to take. The girl's eyes and the predatory expression on her face softened at once. Babies were almost universally appealing, even if unborn. "I show you where to go," she offered instantly. "Posse maybe take the long route over the mountain," – she gave no hint as to why they might have taken this delaying detour – "but I, Marie Duval, can be generous. I will show you the short cut."

"Hah! My daughter is a sentimental child," Duval muttered. "But she is strong-willed. You go with her. But remember, no ravishing!"

Slim controlled his expression with difficulty. He had an idea it would be the other way round, but to refuse a willing guide was stupid. So he led the way outside, taking care to keep well out of arm's length; his experience with Millie Farley had been indication enough of how far a determined woman could throw herself. He mounted swiftly and sat looking down at Marie, who clearly expected to ride with him.

"You'll need your own horse, Marie" he pointed out gently. "I can't guarantee that I'll be able to bring you back here once I catch up with Sam." At least this suggested some willingness on his part without embroiling him in close embraces.

Marie pouted and looked, for a moment, as if she was going to stamp her foot and withdraw her offer. Slim smiled winningly, as only he could. After all, she was a pretty girl and he wanted her co-operation, just not in the way she wanted to give it.

"I'm sorry," he added in contrite tones. "I should have offered to saddle your horse for you. You see, I don't want you walking miles back here on those pretty feet of yours."

Marie flashed him an instant smile. "You are a gentleman! But – not necessary." With that she ran into the barn and very quickly returned towing a mount behind her. There was no saddle or bridle on it – just a halter – but she sprang up lightly and urged the animal past Slim, brushing his leg as she did so.

"Follow me!"

Before long they were down by the river and riding along the bank towards the massive oak tree which formed a natural landmark. Its huge girth obscured the ground beneath both with shadow and because you could not see round it. It was, therefore, a total shock to round the trunk and find a loose horse standing over a still body.

Mort lay as if dead. The ragged blanket wrapped around him was stained with blood. His face was white despite his tan and his breathing barely moved his chest muscles at all. His hand was outstretched to a clearly empty water-bottle.

 **mcmcmcm**

 _So thirsty!_ The words were screaming in Mort's mind, but his lips would not move. They were stuck together with a bitter crust which felt as if he had vomited. His eyelashes were similarly stuck to his cheeks and he wondered, in a moment of fevered rationality, if he had been bleeding from a head-wound. But it all seemed too much. He was beginning to feel light, detached from his physical existence, as if only a slender fragile thread was tethering his spirit to his suffering body. He just wanted to let go. To let someone else cope for once … to hear her beloved voice again, calling him home as she had done on that long ago evening when …

"Mort! Mort!" A known voice was summoning him back. Strong hands lifted him gently into sitting position. Something damp wiped his eyes, then his mouth. He struggled to suck the moisture and it was replaced by the cool metal spout of the canteen.

"Slowly. Slowly now," the voice urged. He took a long blessed pull of water and nearly choked because his throat could barely swallow it. The next time he was more cautious and gradually little trickles of water relieved the parched pain.

Mort's eyelids flickered open. He could see the bulk of three horses in front of him and his instinctive reaction was to roll into hiding and avoid getting shot by the outlaws. Strong arms prevented him and he heard the voice reassuring him rumble in the chest against which he was resting: "You're safe, Mort. It's Slim."

 _He must be dreaming!_ It was his fervent desire to have Slim on the posse combined with his fever which had produced this hallucination. He croaked: "Not … really … you!"

"I'm here all right and I'll get you to a doctor, never fear." The young voice was clear and strong and so familiar.

Huge waves of relief almost overpowered Mort. His senses began to identify reality again. He could feel the rough cotton of Slim's shirt against his cheek, smell the scent of soap and sweat and leather, hear the steady beating of his heart. But there was more on his mind than just being rescued.

"Gold!" he gasped urgently. "Saddle-bags."

"You're more important than the gold," Slim told him fiercely. "And I'm taking you back to the relay station. The doc's coming there to deliver a baby. If you've really got the gold, we'll get it to Laramie. Just concentrate on yourself for once!"

"Alma – ok?" It was as much as Mort could manage.

Slim smiled at the way Mort couldn't stop taking care of other people, even in the face of his own need. ""She's doing well. Now, let's get you up and into something capable of carrying you back to Laramie, 'cause you sure are too heavy for me."

Mort gave a hoarse chuckle at this and whispered: "And I'm sure not walking all the way!"

"Marie," Slim turned to the girl, "do you have a wagon?"

"We do. But what about the baby? The young father?"

"I guess he'll have to find out when he gets back to town. I can't leave a man bleeding to death because another is being born."

"Very well. For you, I get the wagon." She sprang once more onto her horse and disappeared at a smart pace.

Slim continue to feed Mort sips of water until his colour began to return somewhat. He did not dare touch the bandages. Jonesy had taught him not to disturb a wound unless it was absolutely necessary. He hoped Marie would have the sense to bring some bedding in the wagon and maybe some more bandages too.

When she did return some time later, driving a small but surprisingly sound wagon, she had placed a straw-filled mattress in the back and provided an old sheet for bandages. Slim filled his canteen and Mort's and hitched Alamo and Raguel to the back of the wagon, before attempting to lift Mort in.

That single action mercifully reduced Mort to unconsciousness once more. The ride in the wagon was going to be rough and they had nothing to ease the pain of such progress.

"I drive! You look after sheriff," Marie ordered.

For once, Slim did not try to prevent her. Duval would want the wagon back pronto and his daughter could, most conveniently for Slim, be the one to return it. He had set out to find one friend, but, by a miracle, arrived in the right time and place to save another. His worry about Jess did not abate, but he knew Jess would be the first to give their old friend and mentor priority. Meanwhile he just had to keep Mort alive until they could reach proper medical attention.

 **jhjhjhj**

 _They were all alive!_ Jess should have been jubilant, but he was just deeply relieved that the three of them had come through the trial of their co-operation successfully. Particularly old Charlie, with his snap shot, taking down Denning! And Sam had proved himself capable of cool courage when pursued by armed outlaws and, more important, learnt that when really faced with a choice of right and wrong, he would not let himself be corrupted. It was almost entirely satisfying to wrap up the business and tie up the prisoners.

Almost. But now Jess's paramount concern was to get back to the hut where they had left Mort. Yes, he was concerned to make sure his prisoners were delivered intact to Laramie gaol, but the fact that the sheriff would not be there to welcome them weighed heavy on his mind. He hoped they had not brought the outlaws to account at the price of Mort's health, although he knew Mort would willing give himself and his life to the cause of justice. That made it Jess's duty to make sure the arrests resulted in a long gaol sentence. It took some time to roughly bandage the wounds his prisoners had incurred during the fight. More time was spend securing them to their horses. Then Jess and Charlie had to retrieve their own horses and saddles from the over-night camp. The sun was well towards noon before they were finally a workmanlike posse once more and could begin to retrace their tracks to the hut in the hollow.

When they eventually arrived, there was no way of telling from the outside whether the shack was inhabited. Mort could not have kept a fire going, even if he had been so inclined, and it would also have given away that the place was occupied. What perturbed Jess more was that he could see no sign of Mort's horse, despite having left him hobbled in the middle of some good grazing. Jess raised his hand and brought the posse and the prisoners to a standstill.

"Stay here," he ordered, "and if any of them moves so much as a single muscle, y've got my authority t' let them have it!"

Charlie grinned and Sam nodded. The outlaws were feeling too much the worse for wear to make any attempt at retaliation, especially Denning. Jess just hoped Mort was in better condition, but he somehow doubted it.

Jess urged Traveller down the slope, keeping well away from the tracks of previous comings and goings. He could not have said why he did this: it was just a deeply ingrained instinct to avoid confusing the evidence of where others had gone. As he approached closer, the hut was as silent as the grave – but not Mort's, he devoutly hoped.

He left Traveller to stand some yards away from the hut. Again, he could not have said why he was being so cautious, but Jess had learnt long ago to trust his instinct in situations like this. He walked quietly to the door and pushed it open.

A glance inside drove home his worst fears. Mort was not there.

Jess Harper did not panic. Not unless there were steep cliffs or other acrophobia-inducing factors in play. But his heart nearly stopped as his swift glance took in the empty hut. He stood frozen in the doorway for a long minute, then his skills came into play.

Mort's saddle was missing. So were the saddle-bags and his rifle. Someone could have abducted him and taken the missing items. But there seemed little sense in this. If the gold had been discovered by someone, they were more likely to murder Mort than remove him and his belongings.

Jess looked carefully at the floor. There were deep scuffmarks, all leading in the direction of the door. He backed out and looked carefully at the ground immediately outside. The scraping tracks, which showed that something heavy had been dragged, lead him round the front of the hut, to the right-hand end of the building. Alongside the marks he could see deep narrow indentations at regular intervals, about a pace apart.

Rags' bridle was missing from the hook where Jess had hung it under the eaves. There was no sign of the horse himself either. But the earth was scored with scuff-marks and hoof-prints and an overturned box and a fallen plank lay by the side of the hut. He picked the plank up automatically and leant it against the side of the hut. _Mort must have been using it to help him walk, the stubborn fool!_

What he had discovered, however, was reassuring in one way and the source of more worry in another. All the signs indicated that Mort had, for some reason, left the hut under his own volition. Jess walked slowly back up the slope, tracing the prints of Mort's horse and noting that it was moving slowly and carrying a heavy burden. Mort had taken the double eagles with him, then. _But how far could he get, wounded as he was, and which way had he ridden?_

Whistling Traveller over and remounting, Jess led the little posse and its prisoners on Mort's trail. He had obviously decided to head down the mountain, rather than using the long detour through the pass. Jess could only guess why Mort had taken this course of action, but he knew he had to catch up and tend to the injured man before he caused himself untold damage.

The trail led them steadily downwards, through the forested slopes and eventually to the banks of the river. There the hoof-prints were even clearer and guided them surely back to the great oak tree where they had first gone off on an unwanted detour. Jess scowled as he remembered the way Duval's daughter had sent them astray. _The little wild-cat had some accounting to do for that!_ But he was a realist. However much he might want to heap retribution on the heads of the Duvals, he wanted to find Mort and secure his safety and healing even more.

Calling a halt at some distance from the tree, Jess dismounted again and walked over to examine the ground. The oak was an obvious place to rest and recover from the trip down the mountain. Mort had come this far and Jess could not believe he would not pause to rest and water his horse. He himself must have been suffering agony from the bullet wound. Accustomed as he was to ignoring the pain of injuries himself, Jess knew even Mort, with all his powers of endurance, would be close to the limit by the time he got this far.

Carefully examining the ground under the tree, Jess could see that someone had lain there for a long time, overnight maybe: blood had soaked into the ground. There had been three horses, one of which again had stood unmoving for a long time. The picture was obvious. Mort had collapsed, his faithful mount had stood guard over him and someone else – some two – had come along and presumably helped him. That would account for the wheel-marks of a light wagon, drawn up close to the place. _But who and why_?

 _It must have been the Duvals._ Jess could think of no reason, other than common humanity, why the Duvals would help Mort and he did not have much faith in this operating after the posse's destructive visit. But there were no other human beings anywhere within reasonable distance, so it had to be the unpredictable Frenchman and his daughter. Jess did not relish encountering them again, but if he wanted to find Mort and get him safely back to Laramie, he had no option. He led his band on and up until they arrived at the cabin.

Marie Duval was just emerging from the barn, where she had been stabling the wagon horse. She had made record time down the mountain, being experienced in the shortest routes to the main road and ignoring the tortuous trail on which the outlaws had led their pursuers as they fled from Laramie. She had not been able to linger at the Sherman Relay Station, where it was obvious that her presence was superfluous. The handsome Mr Sherman was entirely taken up by the needs of other people and, in any case, that old woman with her sharp eyes was going to seriously hamper Marie's technique. She had to settle for reminding the handsome rancher that she did not live so very far away and hoping her new-found passion would be requited. Besides, she knew exactly what her father would do if she did not bring the wagon home as swiftly as she could.

Coming face to face with the remnant of the posse did not put her in the best of moods. Denning was looking beaten and dishevelled and far from the confidant, domineering man who had wooed and won her co-operation over the matter of selling a few horses. She regarded him with contempt. She had no time for failures and success obviously went to the dark-haired deputy in whose arms she had been carried from the barn. _Well, she might be newly in love but she could still have an eye to a good-looking and masterful man as a second string!_

With such a change of heart, Marie put aside her displeasure at seeing the lawmen once more and opted for good-will and co-operation. "You wish something?"

The young man looked down at her sternly. "Yeah. I want to know where the Sherriff is."

"Is not here!" Duval appeared on the porch looking about as co-operative as a striking rattlesnake.

"What did you do with him!" The young man swung down from his saddle and advanced on father and daughter menacingly. Duval cocked the rifle he held and the deputy gave him a feral grin.

"Ain't gonna give me the answers I want with that, Duval."

"Duval does not have the answers you want!"

"Then I bet your daughter does!" He moved abruptly, grabbing Marie by both arms and pulling her into his embrace. "Are you more willing to help than your father?"

Marie looked up into a pair of startlingly deep, bright blue eyes. For a moment she was lost, before she remembered that she had given her heart to a tall man with cool, pale eyes of the clearest blue. "Marie has helped. She drives the sheriff to the relay station. The big man, Mr Sherman, he will praise Marie for it!"

Jess's expression finally became truly jubilant. "Marie, you are a fine girl! You've done the right thing and you deserve a reward."

It was at this point that Denning, despite his injury and the long ride, showed his single-minded villainy by trying to win the girl back. "Don't listen to him, Marie, honey! You'll get nothing from him but soft words. If you help us, you can get away from here, go anywhere you want. We can get plenty more gold!"

The girl gently detached herself from Jess's grasp and turned to face Denning. "You? Why should I throw my chances in with yours? You are a failure. And me? I have met a real man. A good man, a man of honour."

"You can't mean it, Marie. You're just being fooled by soft talk and fancy ways. We can go places. See great things. Spend all that gold."

"You cannot buy me with gold. " She stamped her foot defiantly, in total contradiction of her previous behaviour. _It was amazing what the influence of a good man would do!_ Jess was forced silently to applaud her changed taste and strength of mind, although it was directed towards his partner, who probably wasn't nearly so enthusiastic as the young lady was. "I have found a man worth working for and serving. A man of courtesy and strong. A big man. Bigger than you!"

"But Marie," Denning protested. "What about the other night? You just going to throw all that away?"

"Yes!" The French girl made a sweeping gesture as if literally casting him from her bosom, so to speak. "I think nothing of you! You are dross. But he, he is worth a price above gold eagles."

"Don't you mean rubies?" Jess could recall the quotation from the Bible. "Surely it's 'a price above rubies'?"

"That is for women, stupid!" she corrected him. "But a man, a man must be valued against what he will fight for."

Jess looked at her thoughtfully. He really couldn't argue with the truth of this and there was no reason to stand around arguing about anything else. He gave the order to mount up and head for home.


	4. Chapter 4

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Marie was willing to lead them by her short-cut, but Jess was canny enough to avoid taking her back to the relay station again and incited Duval, without much difficulty, to forbid her. He was pretty sure that Slim would thank him for it and besides he did not want to hear Denning trying to sweet-talk her all the way back to Laramie.

"You will tell him what I have done?" Marie stood at Jess's stirrup, her eyes wide and appealing. "You will tell him I am a fine girl, one who deserves to be rewarded, no?"

 _No!_ Jess wanted to say. He was wishing he had chosen his words more carefully. It had been on the tip of his tongue to make the position clear in French, a language of which he had some basic knowledge, but fortunately decided against it. You never knew what might sway the young lady's fancy in a different direction once more!

"I'm sure he appreciates all you've done, Marie," he assured her. "Now tell me the trail marks again." He knew he could probably just follow the wagon tracks, but it was as well to be sure.

In the event, having bade a thankful farewell to Duval and his daughter, they made good time and by mid-afternoon had regained the main road considerably closer to Laramie than where they had originally left it. Not long after, they were handing over the prisoners more or less in one piece to Toby Miller. The doc was apparently back in town and so able to save Denning for a long spell in prison with his crew. He had also left the reassuring news that Mort, if not exactly well, was in good hands at the relay station.

The relay station had been uppermost in Sam's mind, ever since Marie had revealed Slim's hospitality and Daisy's care of Alma. There was no way he could let Jess and Charlie down in the matter of finishing the posse by seeing its prisoners finally locked up. But he was positively champing at the bit all the way there and Jess took pity on his anxiety; he was willing to ride fast anyway, for he was longing for home and to see for himself that the doc had been able to patch Mort up successfully. They only slowed their horses to a jog over the last quarter of a mile in order not to arrive with them in a heavy sweat. The twelve miles from Laramie to the Sherman ranch had rarely been covered at such speed except under conditions of extreme emergency!

No emergency met them when they finally pulled up at the hitching rail. Sam had been talking about going home to clean up before coming back to collect Alma, despite Jess's attempt to persuade him to stay at the ranch, but they needed first of all to find out what had happened in their absence. All was quiet and peaceful, except for a rather disgruntled Mike carefully carrying a full bucket of water into the house.

The youngster's greeting was perfunctory in the extreme and Jess knew he was in trouble once again for going off without anyone knowing where or when he would be back. _Slim might have something to say about that too_ , he reflected ruefully.

But Slim, when he appeared a moment later, was looking very pleased with himself – in fact positively smug. He ran his eye over Jess carefully from head to toe and was relieved to find no sign of injury on him for once; even his shirt was intact. His foreboding had not been fulfilled and a sudden pleasure flooded through him at his partner's safe and successful return. He grabbed him thankfully and gave him a bear hug, which was heartily returned.

Having let Jess know how pleased he was to have him back, Slim's natural courtesy focused on their latest guest. There was a distinct twinkle in his eye too, as he looked at Sam and told him there was another young man waiting for him inside. The speed of Sam's entry into the house had both the partners laughing aloud.

"You aren't the only one who's been working hard," Slim told the returnee. "And our results are all positive."

"So he's the lucky father of a boy?" Jess said. His voice sounded huskier than usual and perhaps a little envious.

"Yeah, a son and heir." Slim had his own priorities. "Someone share the farm and all he manages to achieve on it."

Jess grinned wickedly. "Someone t' go fishin' with!" He had his priorities too.

"Fishin'?" Mike had come out with an empty bucket. "Can Mort come fishin' with us when he's better, Jess?"

"Sure, Mike. As soon as he can ride again."

"And how soon can I stop haulin' this water, Slim? You got enough in there to bath a million babies!"

"Maybe you should have a bath too, Mike?" Slim suggested slyly.

"Hey, no!" Mike dropped the bucket with an almighty clang.

"Hush, Michael!" Daisy appeared in the doorway, in full mother-and-nurse mode. "You'll wake the little one."

"Sorry, Aunt Daisy." Then Mike's face lit up: "At least I ain't the littlest any more!"

"For a bit, but I guess they ain't gonna let us keep such a precious baby," Jess grinned again. But however he felt about the smallest man just come into the world, his greatest concern was for one of the most just men in it. "How's Mort, Daisy? Can I see him?"

"As long as you aren't planning to take him fishing right away, Jess!" Daisy had overheard more of the conversation than they all realized, as usual. "In fact you can help him out onto the porch for a bit. The air will do him good and he's complaining he'll go mad if he has to stay inside all the time."

This maneuver was accomplished with a surprising amount of mutual recrimination, albeit teasingly done. Mort complained that Jess had no idea about proper accommodation and provisions for a wounded man. Jess berated Mort for his foolhardy actions in leaving the hut where he could be found. Mort blamed Jess for trying to get him eaten alive by lice. Jess retaliated by accusing him of running away with a young girl instead of attending to his duty.

"That was all Slim's doing!" Mort protested, as he settled into a rocking chair and accepted the inevitable cup of coffee which Jess had just persuaded Daisy to supply.

At the mention of Marie, Slim had given a heartfelt groan.

"It's ok, pard," Jess informed him with an entirely straight face. "She knows you're an honorable man and so does that pa of hers. I told her y'd be back t' pay your respects just as soon as you'd finished playin' midwife. Guess y' new job makes you her hero all round? She's real keen on babies. Can't think who gave her that idea?"

"What?" Slim yelped. "What have you let me in for, you half-witted Texan?"

"Nothing you don't richly deserve." Jess could not keep the chuckle at Slim's consternation out of his voice any longer. He and Mort both began to shake with silent laughter.

"Why, you -!"

Jess took one look at Slim's face, sprang to his feet and bolted across the yard. He was not quick enough. Slim's longer legs caught him up right next to the water trough. There was vigorous splashing accompanied by intermittent yells from Jess when his mouth was not full of water. Such was the nature of true friendship, Mort reflected with a grin.

Presently they came back, both dripping from the waist up. This time neither had succeeded in fully immersing the other. The racket caused Daisy to come out and frown at them again. "Really, you two are worse than Mike! Get out of those wet clothes and into a dry …"

"Don't fuss, Daisy!" Jess implored. "Just break out the dry brandy. We have to wet the baby's head."

"You're both quite wet enough!" Daisy told them firmly as she beat a retreat inside. And it was not to fetch any brandy. In short order, her hand brandished a couple of dry towels out of the door.

"Just what we needed," Slim told her tactfully.

Jess meanwhile had disappeared briefly into the barn and came back in time to hear Slim's placating compliment.

"No, this is what we need!" Jess unstoppered the small bottle he had retrieved from his saddle-bag and splashed the contents liberally into their coffee mugs. "What's his name?"

"Alma was wavering between Matthew and Michael," Mort told them, smiling once again, "but I guess Sam'll have something to say about that."

"I sure do!" Sam appeared behind them. "Reckon he should be Mortimer Matthew Michael Moore. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

"Lucky for the little fella my name begins with a J," Jess laughed as he went inside for another mug. When he had found one, he poured Sam a generous tot and raised his own mug. "Here's good health and long life to Mortimer Matthew Michael and his lucky parents."

"And to the completion of a successful manhunt," Mort added, raising his mug again. "Thank you, all three of you, for your help and all the trouble you took."

"That gold sure caused a heap of trouble!" Sam said with feeling. He had learnt a hard lesson, but an important one for life.

"Yes. And in the end, it isn't worth it," Mort pointed out. "Like it says in Proverbs: ' _Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not? For riches certainly make themselves wings; they fly away as an eagle toward heaven.'_ "

"Yeah, in the end, the gold eagles were not the highest price a man's worth," Jess agreed thoughtfully. The others looked at him curiously and he went on, "Marie said something like that – about you, Slim." Jess wasn't teasing this time. "She said a man must be valued against what he will fight for."

"For his friends," Slim said at once and there were murmurs of agreement.

"I know that no-one could buy the friendship you've shown," Mort told his two young friends and Sam nodded vigorously in agreement.

"Yeah. You're right" Jess reflected quietly, "true friendship is priced far above all eagles."

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NOTES:

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This is my first venture into writing a story directly based on an episode. I've watched it really carefully and tried to keep as close to it as possible, while expanding and adapting some of the action to account for things that are missed out. This does lead to some interpretation, e.g. is Denning actually dead at the end? This is also my first fic trying to use American spelling, to see if readers find it easier. Feedback is much appreciated. Thanks!

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'Raguel is the archangel of justice, fairness, harmony, vengeance and redemption. Much like a sheriff or constable, Raguel's purpose has always been to keep fallen angels and demons in check, delivering heinous judgment upon any that over-steps their Elohim-prescribed boundaries.'

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Acknowledgement: _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._


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